


Counterfeit of Death

by Fyre



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-21 01:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: The journey from Skeleton Island to Savannah was not what John expected





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So these scenes just begged to be written, even though I'd never written post-S2 Silver before. 
> 
> And for the curious, the title is taken from a line in the Odyssey, because I - like James - am a nerd.

John could feel the sweat trickling down his back.

The gun was heavy in his hand and Christ, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

He couldn’t say how long they had been standing there in silence, facing each other across the barrel of the gun. The sun had moved across the sky, stretching the shadows, and his arm was aching, but neither of them had moved.

He had answers and he knew Flint had questions, but until those questions were asked, there was nothing left to say. He couldn’t apologise or explain or change his mind. The line was drawn and he could not and would not cross it.

It always came down to the moments when they were alone, when the world hung in the balance and just enough pressure on one side or the other could change everything. 

The first time he'd put his finger on the scale and really pushed was in the shadow of a bloated corpse of a whale. It was being picked apart by the smaller but no less deadly creatures and if that wasn't one hell of a fucking metaphor, John didn't know what was.

Back then, Flint had been living and breathing grief and rage. Death trailed in his wake and John was the one tasked with if not stopping him, then slowing him down enough to limit the damage.

This time...

Flint was spent.

When he'd told them to set camp, it wasn't for their sake. John could see it in the way he'd all but fallen to sit. It was because, after days of frenzy, weeks of struggle, fucking years of stretching himself to the limit, the man had exhausted himself to the point of collapse.

It should have made it easier to talk him down, but John knew it could never be that simple. Corner someone when they have nothing left to lose and they become unpredictable. 

The man had saved Madi, as he'd promised. They'd taken the Governor. They'd taken Nassau out from under the man. He'd done the impossible and now, he'd been betrayed by the person he'd trusted the most.

John could see the anger behind the exhaustion.

"I expect," Flint's voice was flat when he broke the silence, "you have a plan beyond pointing a gun at me." His eyes narrowed. "A plan that means our men, Rackham's men, are happy to leave the cache where it is?" His mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "You really have a way with words if you pulled that off."

The gun was growing heavier in John's hand, but lowering it wasn't an option. "They want you dead."

Flint gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Tell me something I haven't known for years." 

"Not our people," John said quietly, keeping his voice as even as he could. "The ones who would support us in Nassau, to let it stand as a self-governing province."

That caught Flint's attention, a flicker, barely that, but better than nothing. 

John took a careful step forward. "Rackham told me what happened in Philadelphia. An... arrangement has been brokered between Rackham and the Guthries which would see Rogers stripped of position and title and condemned together with the sponsorship of Nassau as a free province."

"Why?" John couldn't fault him the disbelief and scepticism in his expression.

"I don't doubt there's some financial benefit that guaranteed it," John murmured, "but Rackham said this was Max's idea. Justice for Eleanor Guthrie, financed by her family." He paused, gauging Flint's expression. "Isn't this what Thomas Hamilton wanted? Nassau freed? Self-governing? Prosperous?"

If he had back-handed Flint, the man would not have recoiled more. 

"It isn't just about Nassau anymore. You know this."

John nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Flint's. "And provisions are in place."

"Provisions?" Flint spat the word. "Our allies aren't so easily bought with promises from the very people who enslaved them."

"Not from the Guthries." Madi had inadvertently given John the answer, when she told him of Rogers' plans. She would rage at him for it, he knew, but it was the answer that solved the last of the problems he had been struggling with. "From the Crown. Rogers had a treaty that would guarantee the security and autonomy of the Maroon Queen and her people. All they need to do is approve it and they're free. They won't need the war. They won't need the death that will come with it." He could see the emotions warring on Flint's face. "If I give them the choice of freedom without bloodshed, do you honestly think they'll refuse it?"

Flint slowly shook his head. "You think you have it all worked out, don't you?"

John tightened his grip on the gun, straightening his arm to keep it from wavering. "It's the best possible outcome for everyone involved."

"Even though they want me dead?" Flint subsided to sit back down on the boulder behind him. "I don't see how your plans can possibly work, if you and I walk off this island." The bitterness in his tone was like a blow. " _Together_."

John said nothing, trying to find the right words. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated, this last little piece of the plan. If it worked, if Flint agreed, John wasn't certain how he was meant to go on. It was the right thing to do, of that he was certain. It solved every problem they had, especially Flint as the guiding force for the war. He had been the same thing in John's life from the first day they met, guiding his trajectory, and now it was possible he would be gone.

"There is a place," he finally said. "Somewhere you would be... kept. Safely."

Flint's expression twitched. "A prison."

John shook his head. "A... secure place where men who have no longer have any place in the outside world can find refuge."

"Ha!"

It was amazing how difficult it was to find the words. "They say- this place is a sanctuary for people unjustly imprisoned in London. Somewhere that wealthy families conceal their scandals and pay for the privilege."

Flint's face was taut and lined. "Not my kind of people."

John took another careful step forward. "Listen to what I'm saying," he said quietly. "The elite families of London used it. Some of the most highborn. _Earls_ used it. The Governor of the Carolina colonies used it."

Flint's lips parted, his brows drawing together. He understood. John could see it in every line of his features. He understood and he didn't understand at the same time, shaking his head.

"I sent Morgan to find out if what I'd heard was true."

"Don't." Flint's voice broke. " _Don't_."

"He's there." John felt as if he had dropped a candle into a barrel of gunpowder and was only now waiting for the blast. "Thomas Hamilton is _there_."

For a second, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

"Liar!" Flint ground the word through his teeth. "Don't you _dare_ use his name against me."

John looked at him, too fucking tired to hold the gun up any longer. He lowered it, inch by inch. "I'm not lying. Thomas Hamilton's alive."

Flint had always seemed so indestructible, but right now he was crumbling. His whole face was collapsing into grief and fury and he shook his head again. "It's not true. It _can't_ be true."

The gun hung heavy at John's side. "Believe me. Don't believe me. This is the only option now. The treaties are in place. The arrangements have been made. The crews are in accord. Now, the only choice is whether you walk off this island or not." He tried to draw himself up, but if Flint was exhausted, John wasn't far behind. "I'm asking you to trust me." He moved a step closer. "I'm asking you to come with me, so I can save your life."

Flint stared at him, then looked away, his face contorted in pain. He was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "It doesn't look like I have much of a choice."

John swayed where he stood, the relief and grief overwhelming. Captain Flint would die on this island and soon, their partnership would be done along with the war. It was a good thing. He had to hold onto the fact it was the only way to guarantee all of their survivals.

John knew he wouldn't have the voice to summon the rest of the party.

He raised the gun to the sky, his eyes still on Flint, and fired.


	2. Chapter 2

They were two days out from Skeleton Island when Flint found some little strength.

On a promise of good behaviour - stupid now that John thought about it - Flint had been left unbound in his small cell. Despite the lack of tools to he, he still managed to subdue a man and break out of the confines of the brig. In a matter of minutes, he'd armed himself, but exhausted and wounded as he was, he didn't stand a chance.

Outnumbered and enclosed, he tried to fight his way out, but Rackham's crew were much fresher than the survivors of the Walrus.

By the time John heard about it, Flint was back in the hold again and this time, he was shackled. 

Rackham gave John a significant look. "You know he'll never stop fighting."

John smiled at him and something in his expression made Rackham lean back. "You don't know him." He left the Captain and descended back down into the gloom, unsurprised to see Israel Hands guarding the door of the cell, fingering his axe.

"I think that's unnecessary," John said, flashing a warning look at him.

"We'll see, next time he tries to escape," Hands replied. 

Next time.

They all expected it. No one believed Captain Flint would succumb so easily, but what none of them realised was that Captain Flint didn't exist anymore. Oh, he was walking and talking and fighting, but those were the death throes of a persona that wasn't long for the world. 

"Leave us."

Hands raised his eyebrows sceptically.

John inclined his head. "I gave you an order and I'm in no mood to be disobeyed."

Hands snorted, stalking off through the swaying shadows of the hold. 

John took a quiet breath, then slid the latch on the door and stepped into the small cell. 

From the look of him, Flint hadn't surrendered easily. Bruises that had been healing were darkening again and cuts were reopened. John wasn't sure whether he was even conscious, propped against the inner wall of the cabin, legs stretched out in front of him, his wrists shackled to a loop in the wall above his head. 

John sat down on the beam that served as a bench and watched him. When Flint’s eyelids flickered and a sliver of blue was visible, John breathed more easily.

“What the fuck were you playing at?”

With effort, Flint opened his eyes and glared balefully across the cell at him. “I was getting the fuck out of here.” His voice was hoarse and John could see fresh blood beading where his lips were cracking again.

Well, he could suffer it for behaving the way he had.

“Out of here,” John said dryly. “In the middle of the ocean. Miles from the nearest island or ship.”

Flint’s eyes slid closed again and his chin dropped forward. He took several laboured breaths, then opened his eyes again. “If you expected me to come quietly, you never knew me at all.”

John ran his hand over his face. He wanted to grab the stubborn son of a bitch and hit him. He wanted to shake some sense into him. He wanted him to listen. “You still don’t believe me?”

Flint’s eyes were pale slits and his bloody lips drew back from pink-stained teeth. “I think you’re very good at making people believe what you want them to believe.”

John groaned, knocking his head back against the beam behind him. “Jesus Christ! After all this time, can’t you trust me?”

Flint’s lips twitched in a sneer. “I did.” He shifted his arms, rattling his chains pointedly.

John pushed himself to sit up on the bench. “And if you’d held your end of the bargain, they wouldn’t be necessary.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What can I say to make you understand I’m not lying to you?”

There was a long silence broken by the creak of the ship and the rattle of Flint’s chains shifting against the ring.

“Lazarus.”

John frowned. “What?”

Flint was still glaring at him. “You’re offering me a Lazarus. By any man’s standards, that’s a hell of a thing to believe in.”

John laid his crutch across his knee, pressing his hands to it. Anything to keep him from wringing the man’s neck. “Thomas Hamilton is alive.” The name still made Flint’s face crease in pain. God above, if he would just listen and _believe_ what he was being told, it would make things easier for everyone, especially for Flint himself. “You don’t need to believe me, but soon enough, you’ll see for yourself.” 

Flint turned his face away. He was breathing hard now, his features drawn.

There was nothing more that could be said. If he wasn’t going to listen, the he couldn’t be forced into it. John pressed his hand to the bench and shoved himself to his foot, tucking his crutch back under his arm.

He was at the door when Flint’s chains clattered suddenly.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “What the fuck do you get out of this? Why do you even need to use his name? You’ve got me where you want me. Can’t that be enough?”

John braced his hand against the doorframe. “I get nothing out of this,” he said quietly. “I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing this to save you.”

Flint looked as if he wanted to scream. If he’d had the strength, John knew he would have been straining against his shackles. There was so much anger and grief welling up in his eyes and until he realised he wasn’t being lied to, there was nothing they could do about it.

When John closed the door behind him and slid the bolt home, he heard the rattle of Flint jerking at his chains in impotent frustration. 

Sooner or later, he had to realise where they were going and understand it wasn’t a lie.

That was the trouble, though. 

Flint had been there from the first day John had started weaving tales for the crew. Some of them were true, others were necessary means to an end. Of all the people to suspect his intentions, Flint was the one who knew how much John was capable of, because he was capable of the same thing. 

John ran his hand over his face.

They were still at least ten days out from Savannah and if Flint was going to fight them every step of the way, it was going to be a long journey.


	3. Chapter 3

“North-north-east.”

John opened his eyes. “What?”

He was sitting in Flint’s cell, waiting for him to wake up, but apparently, he had been awake all along. 

“Our heading.” Flint was still shackled to the wall, leaning back against it with his face turned towards the open door. His eyes were barely cracked open, but he must have seen something in the fall of the light in the hold. “We’ve tacked north-north-east.”

“I told you we would be.”

Flint turned his head to look back at John. “Where?”

John turned his crutch between his hands. “Near Savannah, north of Spanish Florida.”

Flint nodded, closing his eyes as he laid his head back against the wall. “I wonder how you learned about this place.” He sounded tired. Not the exhausted, hollow tiredness of the forest on the island, but the weariness of someone who was resting after a long journey. 

“Max.” John smiled crookedly at the memory. “Everything comes back to her, doesn’t it?”

To his surprise, Flint actually laughed quietly. “Ah.”

Nine days had slipped by since they left the island.

Flint had continued to fight for the first few days, arguing, cursing, pulling at his chains, calling John all the unsavoury names under the sun. He turned John’s own words against him, decrying him as a liar and a traitor. 

It was easier to let him rant and rave. It exhausted him and sometimes, he slept. Little by little, the cursing and snarling quieted until the previous day when Flint hadn’t hurled a single insult at John or even raised his voice. 

John couldn’t be sure what had changed, but something had. 

“She would have sent me there,” John added, in case Flint was wondering why such an inconsequential piece of information had come his way. He shook his head. “All because she didn’t want to be responsible for killing me. Better to tuck me away somewhere safe and tended to and never seen again.”

Flint had an odd smile on his face. “Good people turn up in the strangest places.” He opened his eyes to look up at John. “Are you lying to me?”

It was so direct that it caught John by surprise. Not an accusation or a challenge. Just a question. “No.”

Flint was quiet for several seconds. “You believe that?”

John nodded. “I can only tell you the same thing I’ve told you every day since we left that fucking island. I’m not lying to you. I can’t make you believe me. I’ve been told that… he is alive and he is there. If I’m wrong, then you have to know it wasn’t intentional.”

Flint nodded, closing his eyes again. “That’s enough then.”

It felt like a strange sort of benediction.

John watched him for a few minutes more, then rose and went to the door. Hands was there again. He seemed to consider it his duty to be the one to level Flint if he tried to escape again. John suspected he wanted the chance to do better than he had in the forest.

"Fetch my keys."

Hands snorted, shaking his head. "He's done it again, turned you around."

"My keys," John repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Hands cocked his head. "You'll let him loose?"

"What I do is none of your concern," John said evenly. "My keys." He turned back into the cell, not even waiting to see if Hands obeyed. He would, of course. A man like that was a follower, as much as he barked and answered back.

Flint was looking up at him now. "You don't need to do that."

"Jesus." John hopped back over to the bench. "You and Hands agreeing on something? Never thought I'd see the day."

One side of Flint's mouth turned up. "I wouldn't go that far." He shifted, moving one arm then the other, as if to take the strain off his limbs. "You know the rest of them would feel better knowing I was still shackled."

"Since when have I cared what they think?" John sank back down to sit, leaning against the beam again. "Anyway, I never said you would be let loose. I'm not a complete idiot."

There was a flicker of something like amusement in Flint's expression. "And yet here we both are."

Despite the frustration of the days gone by and the dread of what was to come, John couldn't help laughing in disbelief. "Don't tell me you're suddenly developing a sense of humour."

Flint inclined his head. "I've heard it happens." Somehow, if it were possible, he looked younger. Or at least as if some of the deep lines and furrows creasing his face had smoothed out. Maybe the burden of his vengeful mission being put aside had helped after all. He was quiet for a moment. "You could have killed me. I don't doubt it would have been much more palatable for everyone involved."

"I could have," John agreed, "and I'm sure it would have." He tapped the foot of his crutch against the floor. "That's the trouble though, isn't it? You said yourself that I brought myself close enough to you that you'd hesitate to kill me. It goes both ways."

Flint's small, quiet smile returned. "What a pair we are."

John had to smile sadly at that. He glanced up when a shadow stretched in the doorway.

"Hands said you wanted these," Gunn said, tossing John's keys to him. He shot a wary look at Flint before retreating from the room.

John turned the keys over in his hand. Flint wasn't wrong that the crew would be unhappy if he was unchained, but the last thing John wanted to do was spend the last days of their friendship with Flint chained to the wall like an animal. "Do I have your word you won't embarrass me again?"

Flint nodded. "Would it do me any good if I did, anyway? I know Hands is just waiting for an excuse."

John rose, hopping across the cabin, and bent to unshackle one of Flint's wrists and drag the chain through the loop on the wall. He had a pistol and a dagger in his belt and he knew Flint was more than capable of taking either or both while John stood over him, balanced on his one leg and with his hands occupied.

All it would take, John knew, was a knife to his throat and the power on the ship would shift again.

The fact that Flint barely even glanced at them was both a relief and disconcerting.

Every minute of every day since they'd met, Flint had been fighting. John had watched him, wondering at the seemingly limitless well of energy and fire. Seeing the man who had fought so much sit quietly as his wrists were unchained, despite the chance to arm and free himself felt like John was seeing a different man altogether. 

He returned to the bench, sitting again, and watched Flint rubbing at his bruised and blood-lined wrists. "Do you believe me now?" he asked quietly.

Flint didn't look at him right away. "I believe that you believe what you're saying." He massaged some life back into his cold, pale hands, flexing his fingers. He raised his eyes to John's. "I've been trying to think what purpose you could have for lying. You wanted me off the island without the cache. That was simple, but to continue with the same story?" He shook his head. "It makes more sense to believe you, even if- even if you're mistaken at the end of this journey."

And there was the Flint John knew well, taking fragments of information, examining them and working out the most likely narrative to fit. 

John smiled briefly at that. "Well," he said, echoing Flint's words back at him, "That's enough then."


	4. Chapter 4

“They think you’re mad.”

John glanced sidelong at Flint. They were standing at the port side of the ship, side-by-side as they had been on so many occasions. “Let them think it,” he said, looking back out to the sea. “I’ve had worse.”

“Is that so?”

John propped his arms on the rail, looking out to the distant rim of land on the edge of the horizon. “Well, only a few days ago, someone not too far from me was calling me a variety of names that are a little worse than mad.”

Not for the first time, Flint laughed quietly. It wasn’t the same as before. It somehow felt more real and was all the more disconcerting for it. “Yes,” he admitted as he folded his own arms on the rail, the shackles rattling, “well, you had pulled the rug out from under me. I wasn’t pleased.”

John glanced down at the chains on Flint’s wrists. “You know those aren’t necessary.”

Flint smiled crookedly. “If it means I don’t have a dozen shadows with swords standing within arm’s length, I can bear the weight of them a little longer.” He shifted one hand to draw the chain up to rest on the rail. “I’m surprised they even agreed to let me on deck.”

Despite his best intentions, John glanced up at the helm. Flint must have noticed and followed his gaze, spotting the marksman and the gun trained in their direction.

“Ah.” Another quiet chuckle and not a trace of anger. “Not quite agreeing, then.”

John grimaced. Rackham understood what was going on, but his crew were still having trouble with the arrangement. A prisoner, Rackham had explained, wasn’t meant to be wandering about in their opinion. A prisoner was meant to be held below and not given the chance to take air or generally be seen where he wasn’t wanted. 

“Rackham insists they’ll do as they’re told.”

Flint raised his eyebrows. “You hardly sound convinced.”

John shrugged, turning back to the sea. “They’re not my men.” He could feel Flint watching him. “What?”

“Not your men, and yet I’m still alive.” The chains slid against the wood of the rail as Flint shifted his weight. 

John looked at him. “Well, I did warn them if they tried my patience, they would regret it, but that doesn’t guarantee anything.”

“Hmm.” Flint looked back up towards the helm and Rackham’s sharpshooter. “It seems to have guaranteed me some air and a little freedom. Rackham can’t have you appearing to command his vessel, but he doesn’t want me dead for fear of you.” He nodded slightly to the gunman. “That? It’s all show.”

John canted his head. “I think you underestimate how much he thinks of me.”

Flint met his eyes, lifting his brows. “I think you underestimate how much Rackham thinks of anyone. He _needs_ someone strong to look up to. Vane. Teach. He’s seen what you can do. He knows what you will do when crossed. He admires it.”

John shook his head. “I think I preferred it when you were swearing and insulting me,” he said ruefully. 

Flint chuckled, looking back out across the endless blue.

For a long time, they stood in silence, broken only by the creak and snap of the sails and the slap of the waves against the prow. Flint had always been a seaman, John remembered. He’d told tales of his childhood as a ship’s boy. Could someone born and raised with salt in his blood truly step away from it? 

“What are you going to tell her?”

John glanced at him. “Tell her?”

Flint was still staring out at the horizon. “Madi. Whatever yarn Rackham spins for your benefactors in Philadelphia, it won’t be enough for her.”

It was the thought that John had been trying to avoid. He could remember the way she looked at Flint when they had rescued her from Rodgers. That smile wasn’t purely one of relief. Whatever had happened between them in his absence, it was far deeper than friendship. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The truth, I suppose.”

Flint fingered the chains at his wrist. “It won’t be enough.”

“I know.”

They all had their reasons for the war. Madi’s was not only for vengeance but for justice. A man - or woman - seeking to right the world’s wrongs was doomed to fail in a place and time when the world was weighted against them. Flint’s woman. Madi’s own father. Eleanor Guthrie. So many of their crew. Half of Nassau left in flames.

People like Flint and Madi would walk into the fire if they believed it could change things for the better, no matter the cost. 

Flint looked at him. “She won’t believe it.”

“She won’t believe it of you, you mean.” John met his eyes. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”

Flint nodded. He drew a breath and released it and turned his gaze back to the waves. “Or of you. I think they’re waiting to see you tip me over the side.”

John folded his arms on the rail. “I don’t give a fuck what they think,” he said frankly. 

It wasn’t the whole truth. 

Madi. 

He knew her well enough to know what she would think about his choice. More importantly about the choice he had stolen from her and from Flint. She might even hate him for it, but it was better to know that both of them were alive and whole, even if they never came near him again, than the alternative. 

Silence fell again. Once or twice, Rackham and his men called out orders. Lines were tacked. The sail billowed and swelled overhead.

“What happens,” Flint finally asked, “when we reach Savannah?”

John shrugged, unfolding and refolding his arms. “You’ll be delivered to your host.”

“By you?”

John pressed his lips together and wrapped his hands around his upper arms. The sea spray had left his sleeves damp and cold to the touch. “I think it’s better if I stay with the ship.” He didn’t need to see Flint walk away from him without looking back. He didn’t want or need to see the man whose name alone had stopped Flint in his tracks. “I don’t want Rackham to get any independent ideas.”

The sound Flint made was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “No. We can’t have that.”

John glanced at him. The small smile on Flint’s face was familiar but belonged to a stranger at the same time. Little by little, the façade of Captain Flint seemed to be falling away and John wasn’t sure what to make of the man that remained. The sharpness, the danger and everything that had made him _him_.

It should have made it easier, but it didn’t. Instead of a clean cut, it felt like a lingering wound, losing a little bit of him at a time.

John straightened up from the rail. “I need to speak to Rackham about our course. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Over the side, you mean?”

John gave him a look, one Flint knew well. “Anywhere. Don’t make me a liar.”

Flint’s lips twitched in that little smile again and John had to turn away.


End file.
